


Can’t Do Nothing

by GunpowderFlaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Sam, Case Fic, First Time, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mutual Pining, Sam thinks too much, Teasing, The story happens somewhere in Season 2, Wincest - Freeform, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:49:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23685685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GunpowderFlaw/pseuds/GunpowderFlaw
Summary: Sam and Dean look into a series of strange deaths, however in the course of investigation, something between them gets uncovered.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 11
Kudos: 95





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I gotta thank the band Blue Oyster Cult for creating some awesome songs, I cannot finish this fic without their songs. And thank Dean too for listening to them a lot, or I wouldn’t even think of trying out old rock music!

Sam frowns when another wave of greasy air hits him, leaving a bad taste in his mouth as if he'd had breakfast, lunch and dinner in a row. There are some customers with strong southern accents chatting in the background. Outside with their backs to the window are two middle-aged heavy smokers, from the shorter man’s left back pocket, a pack of half-empty Marlboro peeks out. This diner’s got a funny name, blue cheesy or something, which is exactly how Sam would describe his current situation with Dean hitting on the blonde waitress. She is wearing a way too small V-neck tank top and a pair of low waist flared jeans, and is laughing at something Dean said.

His brother is a beautiful man, it's no surprise that every waitress is eager to jump him at the first chance they'd get. Pretty understandable for the girls, Sam muses, but Dean should control himself at least a little bit.

On his screen shines the front page of a local newspaper, showing the fourth inexplicable death within two months. Headline all capital letters, a black and white photo of victim's house is positioned at the bottom. It was a man in his thirties, married, no kids, suburban house. Basically white fence and apple pie life. According to his wife, the newspaper writes, she came home late one night and found her husband's stiffening corpse in the bathroom. This guy doesn't seem to have anything in common with all three of the prior victims, who were single women living in the town's center. Except that they all died of internal organ failure, and their ring fingers are all missing. Coroner's report says the cuts were made post-mortem. No signs of forced entry. 

A sticky feeling at his wrists gets him to fish for some napkins, with the movement he spots some remnants of leftover oil stains on the table that mess up the reflection lights. The background chatter becomes a continuous murmur with his shifted focus, then a familiar figure gets picked up in his peripheral. 

Dean is finally done with the blonde and is moving toward him with a smug smirk, "Got something here." He waves the napkin with a phone number on as he approaches, mischievous light shimmering in his green eyes.

"Dude, we need to talk to the wife." He ignores his big brother and goes on, "This is our only lead so far."

"Definitely, wives are even better than chicks you find at a bar." Dean's eyes trace down to Sam's chest, blink twice and get back up again, his brows waggling.

Sam snorts, "Hey, get your mind out of the content of whatever website that makes you delete your browsing history. We've got work to do."

"All work and no play," His brother says in a grunt, "can’t let your man have some fun, huh?"

"You ain't 'my man', Dean." He laughs and rubs his nose. His fingers smell faintly like grease. "And we don't have all day to waste."

He closes the laptop, wondering if the husband had something to do with other three victims. He looks up a moment later and finds Dean already at the door, holding it open. Shoving his thoughts to the back of his mind, he stuffs the worn-down leather bag with his bulky laptop and hurries to his brother. "Here you go, princess." Dean says as he walks out into the humid air. Sam presses his lips together, releasing them immediately as he remembers Dean teasing him about his "bitchface". Last time he checked there was nothing bitchy about his face, but Dean calling him out like that still revokes a string of guilt in him. Great. 

The two smokers are gone, and there are small pools of evaporating rain water in the parking lot.

"So," Dean says in a nonchalant rock star kind of way, "what do you think? This dude cheated on his wife, wifey found out and ganked everybody involved?"

"Maybe. Let's see what the wife has to say."

*

The white wooden door opens on Dean's third knock, the wife--Lyla Simmons--seems pale. It takes longer than usual for her to speak up. "Hello?" Her brown eyes scrutinizing.

"Mrs. Simmons?" Sam asks, just in time to get her attention before she can spot whatever inappropriate expression displaying on Dean's face. "I'm Officer Roeser, and this is Officer Bloom."* They flash their fake IDs in unison.

"We are with the FBI." Dean picks up the conversation, thankfully with a straight face. "Do you mind we ask you some questions?"

"Of course," She steps back, letting the brothers into the house. "I figured it was you. There must be something wrong, right? He's way too young to die of a heart attack."

"We are still investigating, Ma'am." They follow Simmons into her living room, and carefully sit down on her tiny couch. There’s just no way for a couple to have their biggest couch in baby size. But again, Lyla is a petite woman, maybe her husband was too? Sam can feel heat coming off of Dean's thigh, which is more distracting than he would like to admit. He squirms to get a little farther away, hoping nobody would notice.

"Mrs. Simmons, can you think of someone that would want to hurt your husband?" 

Lyla has a perplexed look on her face, and tears start filling her eyes when realization hits, "No, no, he was a sweet guy, wouldn't even hurt an ant."

"It must be horrible to lose someone like that." The pain of losing someone dear still resonates with a part of Sam, no matter how many times they go through this.

Dean spares him a look, concern clear for a fleeting second, then he reigns his face to a neutral blank. "Ma'am, was there anything unusual you may have noticed before he passed? A change of behavior, or maybe something he said?"

"Not that I can think of... Oh, maybe there was one thing." A flash of uncertainty between her brows makes Sam wonder if she's being completely honest, "He came back in the middle of the night on Thursday, the day before he... I thought it was... never mind. He just doesn't do that, he never came back late on weekdays." She is sobbing at the end, "Sorry about this."

"It's okay." Dean said, "May I use your bathroom?"

*

"It's not a ghost." Dean sounds a bit frustrated as he starts the car, "No EMF, no nothing."

"And it's not the wife, either." Sam said, "But there's something she's not telling us."

"What, you are a psychic for real now?"

"But you saw it too, didn't you? Her hesitation when speaking about that Thursday night?"

"Damn right I did. Got ya, sammy." Sam is about to open his mouth to bark some insult when Dean abruptly turned up the volume, from the audio a guitar riff tears through the space between them. 

"Jerk." He gestures with both hands, Dean's smugness almost dripping out of the car at his agitation.

One song later, Dean turns the volume down to a normal level. "I say next we break into some single ladies' apartments—"

"After finding some place to stay for the night." He feels nearly relieved not to hear the second half of that sentence.

Driving around for some time, they stop at the first motel that doesn't have a "no vacany" sign, and check in at the front desk. The grandma behind check-in counter keeps giving them looks, and huffs out a small laugh when Dean asks for two queens. The credit card goes through smoothly. They get the key, find their room, and step inside. There's one king bed.

"Great. This is just great." Dean fumes, "You wait here, let me get this straight with that old lady."

"Yeah, you better get this as straight as it gets." He is rewarded with Dean's exasperated eye roll, and a slamming door.

He leans against the side wall, trying to figure out what marks Dean and his "apparent gayness". They are close, but isn't that what most siblings are? Maybe it's their appearances, they don't really look alike. In all honesty Sam doesn't care how people construe his relationship with Dean, which is kind of weird as he does get affected by external opinions more often than not. He scratches his nose, attempting to fend off the smell of dust and mold floating in the room.

The door swings open to reveal a much annoyed Dean, he sulks inside. 

"What?" Sam asks.

"I can't believe it, dude. She said the double-queens are saved for customers that really need them. And she thinks we obviously are not those kinds of customers." 

"Did you tell her we are brothers?"

"Of course I did! She didn't believe me!" Dean complains in a pained voice. "And I don't wanna risk the credit card for a refund. So we are stuck here. For two days."

His brother takes a look around the room, and sighs, "I just don't get why people always think we are like, together together. That's all." He exhales.

"Yeah, me too. Guess we'll have to share for now." Sam said after a while, smiling when Dean gives him a slightly disgruntled look, "Good news is the bed is huge."

"Hope you don't take up all the blanket, Sasquatch." 

*

They head out at nine, the sky's cooling down as earth rotates toward yet another new cycle of another day. Streets are quiet on a weekday, occasionally one or two drunks show up with their flushed faces and unsteady steps, some of them yelling, some scramble taciturnly to get a hold of any available solid surface to keep upright. Nobody even acknowledges the brothers’ presence. 

"Just peachy, we got three different apartment buildings to break into tonight." Dean whispers, "Why couldn't they just live in the same one?" 

"I guess nothing comes easy for the Winchesters." He replies in a lowered voice and shrugs. Their shadows elongate as they walk, the blurred edges thinning.

"Smartass." Dean nudges him with his shoulder, a sense of dearness in his tone. "What can I say? It's a family trait." 

There's no surveillance camera at the entrance of the first victim's apartment building. Dean picks the lock while he stands watch, half a minute later the door pops open with a loud squeak, he winces, then quickly slides inside into the dim hallway following his brother. They climb two flights of stairs, stirring some long precipitated dirt along the way. Victim number one's room is right on the left side, a piece of police tape lying muddled on the cracked tile floor. The other two rooms on the same floor seem obliterated as well, empty boxes piling outside closed doors. "Who lives in a crappy place like this?" Dean mutters, handing Sam the lock-pick, "Your turn." Sam grabs it and bends down to work. Dean hovers over him, becoming a physical shield between him and the world, just like he always does.

A thumping noise from somewhere upstairs freezes both of them, he looks up to meet Dean's bright green eyes, blown pupils to better adjust to the darkness. Dean mouths a "crap", and Sam is already pulling out the lock-pick when another thump reaches them. At the same time they hear a moan, mixed in with a low grunt, and the thing--probably a bed--thumps again. 

"Son of a bitch." Dean laughs under his breath, "Sex alarm."

More high pitched noises spill down as the thumping becomes more rhythmic. "Sex alarm indeed." He smiles, and goes back to the lock.

They enter the apartment. Sam can instantly tell something in the fridge is rotten. Carefully, they dance around the place, rummaging through drawers, closets, and anything that can link to the deaths.

"Hey, look." Dean calls out with his brows furrowed. It's a photo, in which three girls smile at the camera. Two of them are unmistakably victim number one and number two.

"We need to talk to girl number three." Dean points at the brunette in the photo as Sam nods his agreement."In the meantime, we still got two apartments to break into."

*

The other two apartments turned out to be a bust, one of them was already cleared out for re-rent; and in the other, they weren't able to uncover any useful leads for the case.

It is nearly four in the morning when they finally get back to the motel, and it's not until the moment Dean opens the door do they realize they still have a king sized problem in their room.

"Oh man," Dean groans, pinching the bridge of his nose, "I totally forgot about this."

"Come on, Dean." He's too tired to care about anything, much less sharing a bed with his brother, "If it makes you feel any better, girls do this all the time." He climbs under the covers, hazel eyes blinking slowly to steal a glance at Dean. The latter pushes out a wicked smile, only half sincere. "Very comforting, Sammy girl. But who says I'm feeling bad about it?" He sheds his jacket, his pair of worn down boots, and throws himself face down onto the bed.

"Right, not bad at all." Sam mumbles as Dean reaches out to turn off the light, already half asleep. 

Then darkness encloses him in a velvety unconsciousness, and he is certain that he dreams of Dean's hand in his hair.

*

"I'll go talk to the girl, you can go check on some police records." Dean pulls over at the local police department.

"Why you always get to talk to the girls?" He retorts automatically, but the trace of wariness weighing his voice is not that easily scraped clean.

"I'm the oldest, that's why." Dean says, his usual lighthearted stance ostensibly intact. 

Throughout the twenty-minute's drive, neither of them mentions the state they were in waking up--all tangled up together and a bit too clingy even for chick-flick standards, with Sam's face in the crook of Dean's neck and Dean's hand at the small of Sam's back. The king bed seemed excessive when they could fit into a single bed like that. And they are now both doing what the Winchesters do best by not talking about it. Sam opens his mouth, struggling to come up with something he would normally say before getting out of the Impala, and fails. He finds Dean's attention fixate on his lips for a second, then his big brother quickly reigns his focus to a harmless spot somewhere between Sam's forehead and the tip of his nose.

"Okay." He says eventually, snatching his backpack from the backseat. "I'll um... see you later."

"Yeah." Dean sounds weirdly amused. 

Engine starting, Sam watches the Impala driving off, smoothly, its back lights fading into a vague red dot.

* 

Dean picks him up at around two in the afternoon. They are heading to a diner that Dean's convinced of having the best burger in town. The tension between them this morning has dissipated, but he can't shake the impulse of dissecting that indescribable restlessness. 

For the first time Dean's words are actually credible, the diner being a real deal and everything smelling incredible. And there's no suspicious stains on the table. Some rock song plays distantly in the background, the sound of base humming low in a powerful tune, like a taut spring about to break. As usual, Dean throws his charm at the cute waitress, but when she reciprocates, his brother replies the enthusiasm with nothing more than a contained wink. 

Clouds start filling out the already bland sky, the air so saturated to the point that water can be wrung out of it. Dean sports a contented expression as Sam gulps down his food, and even initiates the conversation when Sam is still silently consuming a protein smoothie. 

It turns out the first two victims visited a vintage shop one day before the first death, and the third victim worked at the exact vintage shop in town. 

"Something fishy is going on there." Dean concludes. "What'd you think about doing some good ol' break-in tonight?"

"We should probably check on Mrs. Simmons first." He brushes a strand of loose chestnut hair back from his face, "Find out what she's hiding from us."

"Yeah, you're right." Dean is staring at him intently, and swallows, muscles on his neck contracting. "Okay, better get our asses moving." He stands while clearing his throat, gesturing Sam to follow.

Dean holds the door open for him again, this time he ignores it and goes straight to the side door. "What's the problem, honey?" Catching up in small strides, Dean sounds pleased with himself. 

"Dude, this is not funny!" 

"You were totally loving it last time."

"What? How the hell did you see that?" The guilt is there again, simmering. Since when can Dean say something entirely unfounded that makes him feel red-handed nonetheless? He is compelled to defend himself, but why would he defend himself, if Dean is only joking?

The air is even thicker outside like he is swimming in it, the taste of rain lingering on the tip of his tongue. It's going to be one hell of a break-in later if they can't cover their tracks.

"Not gonna hold it against you, alright?" Dean softens, wraps an arm around him casually and guides him toward the Impala. 

For an imperceptible moment, he lets himself relax into his brother's embrace, then forces himself out of it before the touch becomes something he can't yet comprehend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Those are the last names of two members from the band BOC, surprise surprise!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has gotten longer than expected, so let’s just (arguably)enjoy the ride, shall we?

This time the door to Mrs. Simmons' house opens before the second knock, "Officers, come on in." Her tone is flat, and the frailty weighing her every movement yesterday seems to be receding. Sam is all too familiar with this particular kind of ache, a dull pain that can not be washed away with time. The scar will always be there, twisting with each breath, each idle moment, until a new distraction comes along and saves the person from wallowing. And an over-compensating calm takes hold whenever there's company, masking the omnipresent vulnerability. 

He wonders if he could ever get over Jess as they are led into the living room. Oblivious of their surroundings, he stares at the light blue shirt Mrs. Simmons is wearing, keeping the distance between him and the hem of that shirt exactly two steps. It’s like walking on an endless path, loitering on a single dimension. What waits at the end of that path stops to matter, and the unequivocal destination for every life becomes a mere choice, as all factitious definitions melt and the mind detaches itself from the manmade meat cage that embodies the form of God. 

When the back of Dean's hand brushes over his, he believes he imagined it in his head. And when that happens again, something jerks him back violently to the physical world. A phantom warmth lingers even as Dean steps away, leaving him some space to recover from whatever thing that’s haunting him. Lyla stops in front of the couch, she turns, unaware of their exchange.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but we have to ask you one more question about your husband." Dean says when they are again situated in that tiny sofa.

She keeps quiet for a stretched minute, as if waiting for the right timing. All windows are closed in her living room, the three of them cut off from the outside world. "Go ahead." She breaks the silence, words laden with a kind of determined dispassion.

"What is it that you are not telling us?" Small creases between Sam's brows belie his calm voice.

"I thought it's irrelevant to the case, but what does it matter now? He's already dead." Lips thinning, she shakes her head, "Ain't nobody's gonna judge his orientation no more." 

"Wait, you mean..." Dean looks bewildered.

"We were each other's beard." She huffs out a small laugh, "You think at this time people shouldn't hide their sexualities? Our parents are all devoted Christians, so as you can imagine, we were brought up having this stupid belief that homosexuality is sin. But our families love us. It's not as easy as some people make it sound like, cutting connections with your parents." She lights up a cigarette, "Well, you can see how thrilled I was when I found out he was like me too. We became each other's chosen family, got married a year later. Nobody ever doubted a thing. Every other weekend we would drive to another town, getting pick-ups and all. Even though we were not physically attracted to each other, I would still get jealous. And I think he did too." She chuckles dryly, "Fucked up, huh? We are... were like siblings, but we were more than that."

She closes her eyes, hands shaking as she takes in a breath, exhales, and does it again. Dean takes the chance to check on him, eyes enquiring. The sound of Lyla's lit cigarette being the only stir in this room. He tilts his head ever so slightly and stares back at his big brother, wets his lips unconsciously as Lyla's words resonate in his head. He must be so out of it because at some point Dean has put his palm on his right thigh and applies the gentlest pressure. A tingling shiver shoots up his spine as he writhes and nearly generates some indignant sound at the bottom of his throat. Reality hits him, hard. He is thrown out of his trance into the overwhelming world, in which he finds Lyla watching them, her expression carefully searching. Blood races to his face.

"It must be hard for you, too." She says with a sigh. 

Dean frowns, then remains silent, which is odd since the normal reaction for Dean is replying to this remark with something like "I don't know what you are talking about". Internally Sam knows he already has a vague idea of what this is all about, but he is refusing to shine light on that thought. Because no matter from which angle he tries to rationalize it in his head, it just seems to be crossing lines that he doesn't even have the courage to poke. But he doesn't deny her observation, either. For some obscure reasons he fears the power of his voice, that if he said something the possibility of its happening becomes visible, emancipated from people's thought and grow like a wild fire. 

Dean's hand is still on his thigh, resting. 

"Um, did your husband... ever go to the vintage shop downtown?" Finally remembering their purpose, Sam asks, hoping Dean would not notice the sudden shift, both in their topic and moods.

"Not that I know of. Why?"

"Just asking, it's probably nothing." 

"Thank you, Mrs. Simmons." Dean gets up, "We won't be bothering you."

Raindrops rip through the air on their way out, the thickness he felt earlier is gone. Without a word, he climbs into the passenger seat, mapping with his mind the place where Dean's hand had been. 

*

Everything seems to be extremely quiet at this supposedly busy afternoon hour, it's almost as if the rain is absorbing all of the usual noises from the streets. A monster that would drink up sounds and strip humans of their way of communication. Dean parks the Impala in front of their motel room with a loud squeak of the brakes. The normal Dean would be radiating annoyance by now, but today Sam can't get a read off of him. His face is perfectly tranquil, like all the bustle and churn of civilization that are being wiped away by the damned rain.

"Maybe we shouldn't break into the shop tonight." Dean blurts once they get in the room. The sheets on their shared bed are tangled, folded lines prominent. "I mean, it's raining." He adds in an uncertain mumble with his eyebrows in a twist. 

"Yeah, maybe we shouldn't." Sam scratches his head and tries to avoid eye contact with his big brother. All of a sudden he is unsure of where to put his hands and how to stand without being awkward as he is. The room seems to heat up, he sheds his jacket, sensing the heat still dwelling on the back of his neck. It's difficult to focus on anything else when Dean's scorching stare is sticking onto him.

"Fucked up, right?" 

"What?" Out of all things, he wasn't expecting that.

"Lyla. Her husband." Dean chuckles nervously, the feigned amusement never reaches his eyes. "Us, I guess."

This untimely honesty hits Sam as the fat raindrops outside get shattered on every exposed surface, composing a harmonic symphony out of the discordant, chaotic notes. He doesn't answer, puzzled and torn, not knowing whether to follow his instinct and believe there is indeed something happening between him and Dean, or to listen to his reason and change the subject before it spirals out of his grasp. He swallows.

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you never get hook-ups?" An out-of-the-blue question bearing the weight of overflowing emotions. Even though Dean is doing his best to make it sound casual or teasing, one single sniff and he knows, he just knows. But no matter how well he sees Dean, it doesn't alter the fact that he feels incompetent in the face of the question. 

"Don't want to." Tired of scrapping together a more acceptable argument, he deadpans. "What, you providing?" The retort came out faster than he could get a hold of his mouth. Now he's going to screw everything up. For all the accumulations they finally come to a point where they can talk about their feelings without one of them shying away, one wrong move, all their efforts will be getting flushed down the drain. Which is exactly what he just did. He flinches inwardly, clenching his teeth for the coming disappointment.

"What if I am?" Dean's voice is shaking slightly, repressed, challenging around the edges. He can't tell if it's a joke. It's supposed to be a joke.

But there's an expectant look in those green eyes that ignites something deep inside Sam, perhaps a blind hope, for he can't know if he's bending things to fit his own perspective. Infinite possibilities unfold in his head even though he's still on the uncharted ground. His nerves are on fire as Dean's eyes trail down his body. "I..." Words have lost him, his face burning with a sudden chagrin. He hates himself for his inability of coming up with something smart to say, of navigating himself out of this very situation that he's not really prepared for. And he's angry at Dean, almost furious that his brother seems to always have a kind of smooth elegance with conversations, especially considering his horrible table manners.

A naughty glint slips over his brother's eyes, "Wait, do you not want me to say that?"

"N- No!" He stutters without thinking, then realizes this is most likely a well-tailored joke with Dean having an amused expression right after he speaks. "It's just... I-" His hands are in the air, as if physical movements can boost his brain functions. Again, he inhales, opening his mouth. When nothing comes out, he lets out a frustrated groan as a tear slips down his cheek, showcasing his defeat. Dean looks at him curiously. He hates himself some more for assuming Dean was serious, and now he's the joke. "Fuck!" Sitting down on their bed, he hunches over and runs a hand through his hair, squinting his eyes in an attempt to stem more tears from gushing. In his mind, imaginary Dean starts laughing.

"Hey, Sammy." Unexpected, Dean's crouching down in front of him now, arms extending to hold his face. His brother's palms are very warm. "Hey, I'm sorry, okay? Hell, sometimes I don't even know what the fuck I'm doing." 

Outside, rain is still pouring, the continuous sound of droplets translates to a dull patter within the walls. He blinks, biting his bottom lip as he studies Dean's face up close, their breathes mingling. 

"You were not playing me?" He asks quietly.

"Sammy, I'm sorry. It's almost like I can't be a normal person when it comes to chick-flick moments. But I wasn't kidding, you know?"

"But it's wrong." He shakes his head despairingly.

"Is there anything that can qualify as 'right' in our lives? Who cares if we add one more line of wrongness to it? And who made the rules saying what's right or what's wrong anyway?" Dean hasn't pulled away. 

He doesn't speak. Instead, he stares some more. He can see his brother's eyelashes, they are in a deep brown color, and they look good with the green in his eyes. Showered in the sound of rain brutally flooding the outside world, their room feels like a shelter with the dull warm light and a carpeted dry floor, and they will be safe from every monster out there as long as they are together. The longing in him breaks free, his skin hypersensitive, almost burned by Dean's proximity.

"You don't need to be a hundred percent ready for everything, you can't be, you know that?" He watches Dean's mouth move as he parts his lips and leans in, their noses brushing, causing a sharp intake of breath through his nasal passage.

"Fuck it." He says before closing the nearly nonexistent distance between their mouths.

Dean is a good kisser, all tongue and occasional small bites to spice up the game. He goes completely liquid under his brother and squirms when his pants are getting too tight. Dean nudges him backwards to lie down onto the bed, slotting between his limp legs without breaking away from the kiss. Sam moans with the pressure, his brain is in a swirl, all logics forgotten. It's like he's drowning in molasses of pleasure, the only thing that matters now is the sweet, ecstatic feeling of a warm body pressing up against him. He's fumbling with Dean's clothes, eager to have their bare skins touching. 

"Aren't you a vocal one?" He doesn't hear his whimpers until when Dean is pulling away, letting an empty space flood in between them that stirs with his vocal cords. Dean discards his shirt onto the floor, and Sam takes the chance to strip entirely, his tanned skin covering the flexing lean muscles. 

"Shut up, Dean." He breathes.

"No promises." 

Dean is back on him before having the opportunity to get rid of his jeans. The coarse fabric drags over his sensitive erection, a loud whine gets caught up in his throat as he feels Dean's skin on his, warm and dry, Dean’s hands roaming up and down his sides. "Gosh, Sammy, you know how pretty you are like this?" Dean humps him as he leaves open mouthed wet kisses along Sam's jawline. 

"Dean!" He shivers uncontrollably, sparks shooting up his spine and making his eyes roll, unable to concentrate on anything except the overload of pleasure. He lies there, letting his brother manhandle him onto his stomach, then he is pulled on his knees, ass in the cold air. He writhes.

"Don't worry, Sammy. I always take care of you, you know that, right?" Something tepid and sticky touches his balls, he tries to get away before an arm wraps around his lower waist, holding him still. The wet fingers are trailing down, circle his perineum for a while until he is pushing back onto them, mumbling incoherently, urging his brother to continue. There are kisses placed on his hipbones, the bottom of his spine, and licks and bites on his ass cheeks. They leave a trail of saliva cooling on his skin as the fingers press experimentally at his hole. He moans into the pillow, hoping Dean wouldn't recognize his desperation. His dick is heavy against the sheets, dripping miserably without any satisfying friction. 

Albeit his arousal, he is still a tiny bit nervous about the whole penetration thing. He clenches his ass as the first finger breaches him. The sensation feels weird, but it’s nothing he can't handle. "Relax." Dean pushes further in without any more resistance as he takes a deep breath, focusing on taking the finger instead of repelling it. One finger quickly becomes two, and when they brush over a spot in him, he can't keep his voice down. "Jesus!" He crushes down, hips stuttering, almost pulling entirely away from Dean's fingers. 

"There, huh?" His brother laughs, quickly begins hitting that spot with each pull, working him slowly into a state of total brain shut-down. He cries and begs with Dean's mouth marking every inch of exposed skin, sucking bruises on his back, the inside of his thigh, and the meat on his cheeks.

He must have blacked out for couple minutes because the next thing he feels is the head of Dean's cock pushing into him. It extorts a long, repressed moan out of him. The pair of hands grabbing his hips pull him down onto each thrust, after a handful of them Dean tilts his upper body forward, and the next thrust hits him dead on his prostate. He is gone, completely out of it, as if he is in some alternate reality where time passes at a different rate, even the rain outside of their door falls slower than before. Everything is in a blur, the sound of his eager, desperate screams are dulled. Like hearing others from underwater. He can't tell if Dean is making any noise.

His cock is pushed onto the mattress, the drag making him twitch with pressure building in his abdomen. Dean is groaning in his ear now, his moves becoming erratic. A string of short, open mouthed breathy moans spill out of him as he comes, contracting on his brother's cock, before he slumps forward, Dean slipping out of him as come shoots up his back, sending small shivers down to his oversensitive cock.

Rolling onto his back, Sam stretches himself languidly on their bed, totally fucked out. Dean turns off the light as he reaches for the covers, his ass feels sore, and his head swims.

"It's not something we can not talk about, is it?" Dean says, putting an arm around him.

"Uh-huh." He's half unconscious already, "Tomorrow, Dean." 

"Good night, Sammy." 

He doesn't dream that night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there’s detailed depictions on sewing somebody up, please skip to the end note if you find that disturbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Dnjungle. Thank you so, so much for helping me put everything in order and enduring my weird, shitty ass expressions. You are a star!

Sam wakes up to the sound of a pickup truck driving off. In the fading hum of the engine, he finds himself again pressed up against Dean, with the amulet right in front of his eyes. There is a heavy arm thrown across his ribs, curtailing his air intake. Daylight permeates their room through the thin curtains, generating a pool of light grey shadows under every object that bathes in it. The rain hasn't stopped, but falling a lot more sluggishly than last night. 

Last night. He closes his eyes as the memory comes flooding in, he remembers every touch and every kiss landed on his naked skin, the way he lost it and passed out even before they technically started fucking, and the noises he made when he wasn't able to control himself. Hot blood rushes to his face as he realizes they are both still completely naked under the sheets. 

He didn't intend for last night to turn out like it was. Rationally, no doubt letting his brother do him in the ass was a stupid mistake. But when Dean offered to take back his proposition, he couldn't bring himself to stay silent and just acquiesce. It was an opportunity, and he took it. He can't say that he regrets it, since the exact choices would be made all over again given the same circumstances. Yet it's obvious he was ill-prepared, and Dean was probably acting on a whim, which implies a high possibility of them pretending last night never happened, and that he would lose the only chance of sorting out the briery knots between them.

Taking in the sight of his still asleep big brother, he is somehow seized by a sudden wave of frustration. Dean's hair is disheveled, plump lips slightly open, giving way to his small, sporadic snores. The look on his face is enviably peaceful and care-free, as though he has left the whole sack of moral concerns for Sam to carry. Which, is not entirely untrue for the moment as Dean remains dead to the world.

He lifts Dean's arm carefully, shifting to get out of bed without waking his brother. When the movement triggers a weird kind of sore feeling in his ass, he winces and falls back, a weak hurting sound flies out of his mouth. 

Making some unwilling grunts, Dean snuggles closer, pressing his lips to Sam's jawline as he mumbles indistinguishably in his sleep. Hot, wet breath lands on the delicate skin, he shudders, forcefully wills down his interested downstair brain. He needs to get to the bathroom--a shower, a place to be alone and do some thinking, and he'll be fine. So this time he moves, he keeps his whines down and finally slips out of Dean's embrace, picking up his scattered clothes from the floor and locking the deformed bathroom door after sneaking in barefooted. 

The mirror above the sink has a lopsided crack on it, all the way from the left side to bottom. After turning on the shower, he takes a step back and looks at his broken reflection. His hair's a mess, tangled, and is falling onto his forehead. Dark shades under his eyes have faded during the last two days, but still visible from the countless nights he spent haunted by nightmares and premonitions. When he turns around, there is some dried, crusty semen on his back. 

Lukewarm water falls weakly onto him as he rubs the evidence of last night off, watching disinterestedly as the water forms a small whirl over the drain. His emotions gradually smooth out as time trickles by. Weirdly he can't get over the feeling of taking advantage of his brother. If he didn't tease Dean about providing sex, they would probably wake up cuddling like yesterday morning, then forgetting about it as they carry on with their lives, and thus he would be spared from his current agony of fearing what has yet to come. For the first time in months, he is afraid of the future. There wasn't anything to lose, not until last night. Now he has to move fast before what happened settles in.

Whatever is it with them, he decides, it has to end. It's not about what he thinks or what he wants, it's about what is right. Right decisions are always difficult, and that's alright if it's the price he needs to pay.

So before he gets out of the bathroom, he makes sure he is fully clothed and nothing is out of place.

When he steps out, Dean's awake, and leaning against the headboard. The thin sheets have slipped down to somewhere below his waist, revealing a muscled upper body, his amulet hanging low on his chest. He gives Sam a long look before he speaks.

"Hey Sammy—" He is immediately interrupted by a determined wave of Sam's hand.

"You know what? Let's not."

"Let's not what?" Dean gives him an innocent look, but not innocent enough for him to back down.

"I'm not gonna play this game with you, alright? Quit it. We should get to work." 

Dean blinks, a baffled look flits across his face before morphing into something akin to hurt, but within seconds that expression is gone and subsequently replaced by a kind of adamant resolution. But he refuses to give Dean the chance to elaborate.

"Alright. Guess we should." After a while, Dean gives in.

"Good." He relaxes, "Now get dressed, we'll have a talk with the vintage store owner."

*

The vintage store looks just like any other stores, little trinkets placed over dark red velvet covered corner stand. On the other side worn jackets and jeans stuff the racks. There's a relatively young man resting against the glass counter, randomly poking at his phone screen. Seeing Sam and Dean entering, he greets them with a bored tone.

"How can I help you gents?"

"You are the owner of this shop?" He asks in his formal voice.

"Sure, who's asking?"

"FBI." Dean says as they show off their fake badges. "We are here to ask you some questions about some people who might’ve had come here." 

He takes out the photo they took from the first girl's apartment and holds it in front of the owner's eyes. "Is there anyone familiar?"

"Oh yes," The owner's response is almost immediate, "They stayed a long time," He drawls, pointing out the first two victims in the photo. "An hour, maybe. Debating over which ring to get."

"Ring?" Dean frowns.

"Sure, an antique ring." The owner gets out from behind the counter and goes to the door, pointing his tattooed finger at the stand on his way, "It was right here, until last Thursday--someone stole it." 

Dean gives him a look, a silent request. He finds the husband's photo and shows it to the owner, who is standing back against the glass door with his hands behind his back in a casual stance.

"I've seen him, he was getting his wife a gift if I remembered right."

"When was this?" He believes he already has an answer.

"I guess it was Wednesday, or Thursday? I'm not sure, everyday feels the same." The owner forces a precocious smile and seems to be fumbling something behind his waist. Sam’s instinct kicks in at the movement, alarming him of potential danger even though for now he has no reason to get suspicious of the kid. But he knows better to take precautions, so that nobody would regret later. 

Under the pretext of having a conversation, he nods and places his hands a little above his hips in an attempt to appear amicable, fingertips touching the gun handle over the hem of his trousers. The baggy graphic tee the owner's wearing makes it hard to discern anything that could be hidden underneath it, so he tenses up as the fumbling goes on. He glances at Dean out of the corner of his eye and can spot a stiffer gesture as well.

But when scorching pain explodes on his side, he realizes, that they were still not fast enough. He falls forward, one knee dropping to the floor, as more pain shoots up from his undoubtedly bruised kneecap. Judging by the degree of wetness he feels on the side of his waist, the wound itself isn't so bad, so he struggles and gets back up, tightly hanging onto the wooden racks. Dean and the owner have their guns at each other as he briefly casts a glance at Sam to better assess the situation.

"You okay there, Sammy?" The restraint in his brother's voice is a mismatch to the concerns on his face.

"FBI, my ass." The owner cuts in, "Who are you and why are you looking into that ring?"

"The ring?" Dean laughs incredulously, "We weren't even 'looking into that ring', you stupid asshole. Just can't wait to hand out the grand scheme, huh?"

“Who the fuck are you?” When the young man doesn’t get any instant reply, he puffs up even further, hands shaking from the adrenaline. “Answer me!”

“Fine, fine! Take it easy, will you?” Dean holds out his palm, “We are Personal Investigators, okay? We mostly handle supernatural stuff.”

“What?” By the look displayed on the kid, he apparently knows nothing about the existence of monsters, and Sam doesn’t intend to spook him more with those facts.

"So it's a cursed object?" He asks carefully, trying to get the owner talking and at the same time creating some kind of a distraction, buying Dean time to find them a way out.

"Took me so long to get my hands on that thing, and the bastard just stole it." The owner throws up his free hand, fury clear on his face. His attention is only half fixed on Dean now.

"You know who stole it?" He encourages the owner on, ignoring the tearing pain on his waist as much as he can. Blood is dripping out of the bullet wound, crawling down his skin like a reptile, cold and tentative. He can feel he's slowly slipping out of the realm of total consciousness. 

"You stupid or something? It made the papers, that fucker finally bit it."

"Simmons?"

"No shit, genius. He was so goddamn obsessed with that thing, but even I didn't think he had the balls to come back and steal it."

And that's when he makes the mistake, getting cocky and overlooking Dean's motions. Dean lurches onto the owner—who is shorter and emotionally on edge—and grabs his gun, using the handle to knock him out in one harsh strike.

"I guess that's the downside of dealing with cursed objects, you go cuckoo over it." Dean says as he gets up, releasing the gun from his hand.

The next moment, Dean is rushing toward Sam, eyes examining the expanding dark spot on his shirt. "Sammy?" His brother asks in a searching tone, approaching him in strides. He lets go of the rack and collapses into Dean's arms, seized by a dizzying nausea as his visions begin to swim on the edges, his legs on the verge of giving out. He didn't perceive the blood loss was this severe.

"Hey, hey, hang on." Dean croaks, "Let's get you out of here."

"What about him?" He gestures the owner still laying unconscious on the floor.

"I'll call the police if somebody hasn't already done it, I can probably charge him with assault with that FBI badge." Dean pants as he supports Sam out of the store.

"Sounds like a plan." He comments, before being gently maneuvered onto the backseat. Regardless, the searing pain still forces him to groan out loud. 

In a pain induced haze, he hears the approaching sound of the sirens as Dean heads back to the store, followed by some intelligible conversations, presumably between his brother and local police. He struggles to apply pressure to his wound, but gives up after a while because the bullet had non-mistakenly gone through, and now he's bleeding onto the seat with blood flowing out from the exit wound.

Dean's back in minutes, his distress evident as he drives them back to the motel, blabbering celebrity gossip the whole drive to keep Sam from passing out. When they finally arrive, his side is numb entirely, as though his nerves were under a full blown pain-related signal attack and now they are stretched too thin to really react to anything. 

They stumble into the dim room, three more steps, and he is face down falling onto the bed. The movement pulls at his wound, but all he can feel is a muted burning sensation. His shirt is pushed up by a pair of too warm hands, then he hears the clutter of their first aid kit.

"The bullet went through." After a brief inspection, Dean starts preparing as strong alcohol scent blows up in the air. "Hang on, I'm gonna patch you up. And... This is going to hurt." Dean doesn't allow him time to get mentally ready, in an instant sharp pain yanks his mind right back into his weakened body. He can feel the sterilized needle piercing through his flesh, feel the way his skin is pulled together and almost piled up on a suture line by external forces. The torture repeats, seemingly endless, and his momentary lucidity is slowly expiring as the pain draws out every second of his algesia.

Eventually the world around him blacks out when Dean begins talking about their extended stay. 

*

His flesh is burning, blue flames tinged with red-orange flare up on his side as his nose catches scent of charred meat. His skin is getting more strained by the second, and his blood is circulating the searing heat to every part of his body. 

Eyes snapping open, he finds himself alone in the dark motel room. The area around his stitches feels like it's on fire, which probably explains his dream of burning earlier, and it's becoming difficult for him to sit up. In the end, he pushes himself up with the support of his elbows, teeth clenching as he rests himself against the headboard. He checks the wound, and it seems Dean had taken care of everything, since he's now even in clean clothes--Dean's clothes, he realizes. 

The memories of last night come pouring in his mind yet again, as he is absentmindedly rubbing the fabric of Dean's T-shirt between his fingers. It's a strange sensation, Dean's worn-down T-shirt on his bare skin, smelling faintly like clothes detergent and... just Dean. He still feels tired because of the heavy blood loss, so he lets his mind wander, pulling him into a stupor. Until familiar sound of the Impala wakes him from that meditative state.

Dean appears with a stuffed takeout bag in hand, looking simultaneously concerned and relieved. "Brought some food from the place we went to yesterday after paying Mrs. Simmons another visit." 

"Did you find it? The ring?" He asks, feeling guilty for only caring about himself for the last hour. For all he knows, Lyla could be in danger any moment before they destroy that cursed ring. In comparison, worrying about his non-fatal wound seems somewhat frivolous. 

"Of course I did, bastard hid it under the sink." Dean's lips quirk up slightly, "Lyla was honest to God dumbfounded, though." His brother makes a face, "How you feeling? That was some nasty wound." 

"I'll live." He shrugs.

"Obviously you got the best treatment, I'm an expert when it comes to sewing little brothers up." Setting down the takeout bag, Dean walks over to sit on the bed.

"Jerk." He smiles.

"Bitch." Comes the automatic retort. His older brother seems to have something on his mind, after a couple silent seconds, Dean looks at him determinedly. "Since you can't run away now, we need to talk about last night--"

"Wait." He stutters, avoiding eye contact. "I think I was clear that I don't wanna talk about this."

"Well, I guess then you have to sit this one through. There's no way I'm letting this slip."

He sighs, "Fine. If you want to make me feel like a jerk, save it. I know I shouldn't--"

"What?" Dean interrupts his nervous ramble, "That's not what I wanted to say!"

"What?" He is equally confused and scared of an even worse answer.

"So you are feeling guilty over last night?"

"If- If I didn't goad you into it you probably wouldn't..." 

"Oh Sammy, have I ever been that easily provoked?" Dean carefully wraps an arm around him, leaning in, "I did what I did because I truly meant it."

"Hell." He chortles, "You know I spent the whole day beating myself up about it."

"And yet you refused to talk." Dean laughs, lips hovering over Sam's.

"Shut up." He breathes as Dean's hand combs through his hair. He hums, their intimacy fending off his wound's discomfort. 

Dean kisses him, tender lips pressing down, hand in his hair gently angling his head to better fit their mouths. The kiss goes on for minutes as they both know how to inhale through their occasionally bumping noses. He relishes the moment, mapping Dean's mouth with small licks and light bites, until a loud grumble in his stomach puts their lazy make out session on pause. 

"You should eat." Dean pulls away, he chases the heat for a short distance before containing himself, unwilling to inflate Dean's ego even more. "You slept through lunch."

He nods, content and grinning, as he takes the bag from Dean's hands, their fingers brushing.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter: Sam woke up in denial. So instead of pushing Sam into a talk, they went to the vintage store and found out about the psycho owner and a cursed ring—the reason why people were dying. Sam got shot (non-fatal) and Dean patched him up, then destroyed the ring. Later they opened up and Sam reconciled with himself for wanting Dean. They made out. The end.  
> That was easy, right?
> 
> Anyways, thank you all for staying ‘round and reading my fic, I couldn’t do this without your support! 
> 
> Comments are welcomed!


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